


Scopaesthesia

by Anonymous_Kumquat



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: 19th Century, F/M, Fear, Historical, Horror, Kidnapping, Psychological, Reader-Insert, Stalking, Thriller, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-07-26 00:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Kumquat/pseuds/Anonymous_Kumquat
Summary: You feel the eyes. You feel them constantly, but when you look into the shadows to try to discern their owner, there is no one there.The shadows.They follow you everywhere, and not in a way that a shadow naturally should. When it is quiet, you can hear their faint whisperings.But no one else seems to hear them. No one else believes you.Each day of this is driving you closer to desperation. The shadows won't stop watching you; they won't stop whispering!But tonight, you swear you can hear footsteps as well.(Yandere!Phantom of the Opera/Female Reader)





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extension of Reverence, a one-shot I wrote. The two are stand-alone stories, however, and you can read this one without having read the other. 

It is the nature of life that there are those who needn’t do a day’s work, and those who must toil ceaselessly. There are the well-off flâneurs who idle at parks without want or worry, and those that must labor to support that lifestyle. There are those who can return to their hôtels privés and retire to a splendid bed in a well-furnished chamber, but there are also those who have no other choice but to sleep under the roof without even a furnace. 

This is a universal truth.

However, there are also those who balance on the delicate line between the great disparity: between those two types of people. You considered yourself to be one such person. 

Life as a performer provided a comfortable sum of money to live off of, and little else. That is, life as a chorus girl in a respectable theatre company (you were quite sure that the bigger hits needn’t want for a thing) provided a respectable earning. 

Indeed, your line of work provided you a decent apartment not too near the roof with comfortable enough furnishings and a carpet. It provided you with a good supply of food and wood for the fire, and that was good enough for you. After all, financial security was a luxury.

But you knew hardships, you knew struggle, and you knew it well; you were once one such person that labored fruitlessly. Growing up in an era of great strife and political unrest, in a time of conflict and turmoil, you knew there was worse than what you faced. 

Surely, nothing could be worse than mother and father coming home nearly empty-handed (their pay being suspended). Nothing could be worse than the hopelessness etched in your parents’ faces as they searched for the better job they could not find. 

Nothing could be worse than those days in the mill. Nothing could be worse than the stench of everyone’s business reeking from the one shared water closet. Nothing could be worse than the pain and humiliation of getting the rod. Nothing could be worse than the grind of the noisy machines. Nothing could be worse the slippery floors, slick with oil and water, against your bare feet. Nothing could be the worse than the sound of the girl next to you getting caught on the machine. Nothing could be worse than the sound that made, and it happened so quick, she couldn’t even scream…

That was all behind you though. Now you had a glorious new life in the performance, and at the best time too. With the revived interest among the wealthy in the arts, there never was a better time to be right at the center of it. Life was looking rosier than it had ever been before. 

Rehearsals often began in the morning and ended at nightfall. They were plenty exhausting and left you sore, and practice was even more demanding in the proximity of a show. But you got a decent pay and the work was enjoyable.

At the end of the day, nothing was so pleasurable as to imagine your little apartment.

You would climb the staircase up past the shops, past the apartments of the well-to-do families, past the decently affluent families, until your apartment was finally within reach. Sometimes the air would be full with the smell of a neighbor’s cooking: no smells and noises were private, much to everyone’s chagrin.

The night was late, and imagining your routine encouraged you to walk faster. It was a perfectly ordinary night in all aspects of the word: the night stars shined brightly in the sky, the gas lamps were lit, and all was still (or as still as it could be in Paris). Yes, everything was perfectly ordinary. Well, everything except for the cloaked shadow of a man that was huddled over the edge of the river. 

  
That was a bit unordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitions and explanations:
> 
> * "...but to sleep under the roof without even a furnace." Living spaces were stacked vertically instead of side-by-side (such as modern-day apartments). The poorest would live at the top, under the roof; the higher up you lived, the poorer you were. 
> 
> *"...not too near the roof..." same deal with the earlier note.
> 
> *"Nothing could be worse than those days in the mill." Child labor was a huge problem during the 19th century, and all throughout history really. Children as early as 4 years old were taught how to start working so that they could be used as soon as they were physically able. 
> 
> *water closet= the archaic word for a toilet before the name changed. The word "toilet" meant a washstand or dresser.
> 
> * "Nothing could be worse than the stench..." Mills were substandard, had bad sanitation, were hot, noisy, slippery, and were fire hazards.
> 
> * "...the sound of the girl next to you getting caught on the machine." Accidents were common in mills, especially with children. Children could be killed or permanently crippled from the machines.


	2. First Encounter

The strange man arrested your attention, and by watching him you could empathetically feel the misery radiating off of him, as people are often attuned to each other’s emotions.

It would be easier to leave him to his own business and to carry on with yours. You had an apartment that was waiting for you, and you could just forget this strange man.

You could.

After all, it was impolite to wedge your way into the business of someone else, and you were quite looking forward to returning home. You didn’t want to go out of your way for a man you had never met.

But a foreboding feeling ached in your gut about leaving this man to his own devices, and it was likely not such a good idea to do so, you felt. 

You wavered, desperately wanting to ignore him and go about your own business.

“_You shouldn’t do that, you should be a good person,_” the irritating voice of morality whispered to you. As much as you wanted to ignore it, you could not help how enamored you were with the idea of being good. 

Reluctantly, you made your way to the cloaked figure that was huddled inconspicuously against the river. 

“Monsieur?” you asked timidly, “are you well?”

Now that you were closer, you could see the faint tremor of his body. 

You ventured to raise your voice, “Monsieur?”

As though only just now noticing you, the man startled and moved away from you. You still could not discern any part of him: he seemed to merge with the darkness of the night sky. 

“Go away! I do not wish to be disturbed…”

  
Immediately, his voice surprised you, as you could not imagine a more melodic and beautiful voice to have existed, even when rebuking you. 

You obliged, feeling much better of yourself. You could rest easy knowing you, at the very least, tried to help.

“Wait,” he said quietly, “before you go, let me ask you something.”

You reluctantly halted, quite wanting to go back to your cozy little apartment now that you felt you had done your duty. 

His voice quivered, “How does it feel to love and feel the same love in return?”

_To love? What a strange question! _

You thought for a moment.

_To love and be loved…_

_Y_ou thought of your parents, and then of your cherished friend. 

“Warm…it makes you feel warm in your heart and chest,” you paused to think, “and it makes you feel happy…Yes, it makes you happy in a way unlike anything else. It makes being alive a reason to be happy, instead of a reason to dread. When you love someone, you care for that person, and you want to protect him or her, even at the cost of personal sacrifice.”

_What would lead someone to ask such a question?_

“If I may ask, monsieur, have you never felt love?”

The cloaked man hunched over more. It suddenly struck you that the man was quite skinny.

He answered ever so quietly, “I have known love…just now…if only fleetingly…” his voice began to sound unsteady once more, “and there is nothing more beautiful…It is so wonderful…” he paused as if to savor some pleasant memory or experience, “So wonderful…and so painful…I shall surely die from it.”

_Die? Is it possible to die from love? _You opted to remain silent.

Dark blue and black were painted across the sky. The water lapped peacefully in the river and the waning moon glowed in the sky. 

  
“It can not be possible to die of love; if one loves, surely one would want to stay alive and continue to love?”

The man was silent.

You felt a bit unsure; the conversation was taking a turn better suited for metaphysicians and philosophers, but you pressed on, “Love is a reason to continue living, not a reason to die.”

“To…live? Nothing so painful could be suited for life.”

“Well, I suppose love is sometimes painful, but on the whole, it makes one feel more complete.” 

You were a bit embarrassed by your rudimentary response.

Again, the man was silent.

“I should be returning home, have a pleasant evening, monsieur,” you said, breaking the silence, and then a bit jokingly, you added, “I hope you don’t die of love.” 

“You have given me much to think about,” answered the man. Without another word, he flicked the hooded cloak closer to him and stalked off into the night.

_How strange, _you thought as you made the trip up the stairs. 

Upon arriving at your flat, you added wood to the heating stove and rested on your chair. 

All throughout the evening, you could not help but think back to the queer cloaked man and his strange curiosity on love. Even when you lay down in your bed to sleep, his strange words plagued your mind, and you could not help but feel a bit worried upon reflection. But you could not be all too concerned, for a night’s rest was calling upon you, and you were eager to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if you think Erik is too out-of-character.


	3. The Second Meeting

_You skittered between the rows of machines, mending the breaks and tears. You felt the acute pain of stepping on the scuffed up wood, another splinter. You could get it out later; there was work to be done now, but then, tragically, you slipped on a wet area, slipped and fell right onto the machine._

  
_You were caught: your hair was stuck, and being tugged by the great monster. You screamed. You screamed so loudly, but no one could hear you from the deafening noise of the machines._

_You were stuck._

_You called for help._

_Somebody…_

_Anybody…_

You awoke in a cold sweat to find yourself quite safe in your bed. It was just another nightmare. 

Tears of relief streamed down your face as you sat up. You felt lost, and couldn’t quite remember who you were and where you were.

Then, your life came back to you. It was morning and another day of rehearsals awaited you. You untangled yourself from the bed and changed into your attire.

Throughout the walk to the theater company, you preoccupied your mind with the man of yesterday, lest you dwell on unpleasant memories of the past. With a more acute mind, you were concerned for his wellbeing, especially with the worrying statements he made.

You sat in the women's dressing room finishing with your costume.

That was when you heard your name being called in a soft voice. Turning, you saw the rosy face of another girl, one you were acquainted with: Joséphine. She had a pretty face and soft voice and was likable enough for you to consider yourself close with her. 

“Are you nervous? I know I am. The show is only a few weeks from now, but it feels like only yesterday we first got our roles.”

You smiled, “I suppose so, but I try to only focus on one day at a time.”

She was about to say something in response, but a call to places interrupted her and the pair of you scurried to fill your roles.

The calcium lights were on, but the heavy velvet curtain provided shade, and thus, some relief.

“Did you hear about what happened in the Théâtre National de l'Opéra only recently?” Your companion whispered to you as the pair of you and the other background performers waited in the wings. 

You were expected to wait silently backstage, but it was simply ridiculous to expect anyone to wait silently for such a long period of time. Besides, you could whisper quietly enough.

“I don’t recall…wasn’t that the theatre that only opened a couple of years ago? Do tell though, what happened?”

“That’s right. Well, you won’t believe it,” she looked around, “in the middle of a performance of _Faust_, the curtain suddenly fell, and the whole theatre fell dark of its own accord! The stagehand said in the newspaper that it was not his doing!”

That was not an everyday occurrence…your attention was piqued. 

“Aren’t there rumors of a spirit that haunts the place?”

  
  
Your companion’s face brightened; her eyes glimmered with excitement at your statement. 

“Wait, you haven’t heard it all! The darkness lasted a few seconds, and then the curtains rose again and the lights turned on, only to discover that lo and behold, the lead singer, Christine Daáe, was missing when she was there only a moment before!”

“Christine Daáe, that sounds familiar…I think I saw her name somewhere before. Isn’t she quite famous?”

“_Tout à fait_, she has enjoyed a sudden and booming success.”

Your friend leaned in closer, “I know people who work there, and they tell me that there everyone thinks there is some connection between Daáe and the opera ghost! But it’s all very hush-hush, and the management is keeping a tight lip about it.”

The opera ghost. What a curious thing, a whispered legend and anonymous spirit.

“Well, you know how dancers are. They’ll spin a light breeze into a spirit come to haunt them. Dancers have quite active imaginations.”

“But it’s not just the dancers, everyone is in on it! In fact, Joseph Buquet, the late stagehand was found inexplicably dead, hanging from the set of _Le roi de Lahore_. It had to have been the opera ghost. There is no other explanation!”

“Can anyone actually prove its existence? Has anyone actually seen it?”

“Well, some have claimed to, but Joseph Buquet gave the most detailed description of it, which makes his death even more suspicious.”

That was most peculiar, but ultimately something that did not concern you. Most fortunately, you were at a prosperous theatre company that did not have any spectral dwellers and that provided reasonable pay. 

The conversation was interrupted, however, by your troop’s cue to enter the stage. 

The heat of the limelights was sweltering as your group danced and waltzed about the stage under the bright glare. You would consider yourself seasoned with experience, but the lights never got any cooler. 

* * *

Sweat caked your forehead as you sat in the dressing room, peeling off your costume and redressing in your normal attire. You used the mirror to fix your falling hair into its updo again.

“All set?” your friend asked.

“Yes,” you smiled at her.

“Great, would you like to dine out with me? I want to eat out at the new restaurant today, and I’d love your company”  
  


You considered declining, but on second thought, a night out could do you great good, and Josephine was always great fun. 

“That sounds lovely. I would love to go with you!”

The night was lovely. The meal was pleasing, and any time spent with Josephine was always time well-spent. It was also a refreshing break to not have to make dinner for yourself for a change. 

On your walk back, you could not help but notice the familiar figure that jutted out against the side of the river. This time, you were less hesitant in approaching. 

“Back again, monsieur?”

The figure shifted slightly, but still kept a turned back like your last encounter. 

You took the cue to speak again, “I hope you are well.”

“Why is it you care?” Asked he, in a rather defensive manner. 

That took you by surprise, “Is it not natural to care for the wellbeing of others?”

He was silent, perhaps thinking.

“You do not know me; why bother yourself to care? I could be a dreadful and greedy man, as well as a terribly hideous one.”

That was true. You knew nothing about him, but…

“You do not strike me as that type of person,” you said, thinking for a brief second, “no, you seem like a thoughtful and gentle person,” you admitted. You didn’t much understand why you felt that way, but intuitively, you felt as though you knew the man even though you only spoke once with him. 

“And even if you are hideous, I can still care for your wellbeing. Besides, you seemed to be troubled, monsieur, I only thought it normal to inquire.”

“_And does not cordiality call for that to be asked?” _You thought to yourself but deemed it to be too callous to say.

“No one has ever cared so much…” muttered the cloaked man, “why now?…why?” 

The latter part was quieter and seemed to be spoken more toward himself.

You could not help but pity the poor fellow, despite only meeting him (and in a rather unusual manner) only yesterday. He was strange, yes, that was true, but he seemed fairly harmless. You could not help but wonder about his life’s journey that lead him to think of basic courtesy as caring. 

“Well, you must not have met very decent people, monsieur.”

He hunched over further, rounding his back and murmured, ever so quietly, “No decency is extended to monsters.” 

“Come now, monsieur, you can not very much be a monster: such things do not exist; they are only tales spun to frighten children into obedience.”

“Then I am a monster in the flesh, born to frighten everyone, born to repulse everyone, born for solitude.”

You could tell there was no convincing of a man so set in his opinion.

You raised your hand but hesitated. It was always impossible to tell how such an eccentric man would react to kind and normal gestures, but…it couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?

Gingerly, you placed your hand on his shoulder and patted it kindly. He was bony, so, very skeletal. It was startling; surely if he was any thinner he would perish. Just a gentle touch and you felt as though you knew every detail of his shoulder bone. 

He flinched, jumped even, at the touch as though he was a wary street cat. You quickly withdrew your hand.

“Goodnight, monsieur, I hope you can learn to think of yourself in a more favorable light.”

With that, you turned heel to continue the journey back to your residence.

“What is your name?” asked the man, before you could take a step.

You told him and echoed one last “goodnight” before making your way back to the apartment.


	4. The Ghost

It was a new day. You arrived at the theatre and there slipped into your costume.

“Good morning,” you greeted the sleepy-eyed Joséphine. She merely nodded blearily in response. However, she seemed to awaken more backstage.

“I’m so tired,” she complained to you.

You smiled at her, “I am too, but last night was fun, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, it was.”

There was contented silence as you watched the leading actors perform on stage. 

“I still don’t know why they’re taking this production is going on tour. It’s doing plenty fine here.”

  
You were taken aback and surprised, the production was going on tour? How did you not know this?

“I did not know that! Who told you?” 

“The management told us yesterday after rehearsal? Were you not paying attention?”

“Likely so. You know how they prattle on about everything.”

She smiled, “That’s true.”

Your heart sunk. You had found yourself a comfortable life, and you weren’t anticipating having everything change on a whim.

Your brow furrowed, “Are you going to travel along with it?”

“Me? No, no. The pay is just the same, but finding my own accommodations is going to cost me all my salary. Will you?”

The crease between your brows deepened, “I’m not sure,” you admitted, “this is all very sudden.”

“Oh, well, in my opinion, I don’t think you should go.”

“But…where would I find work?”

“That’s easy, you can just go to a dramatic agent, but I’m going to try applying directly with the managers.”

“Which agency are you applying to?” You inquired.

A sly look came about on your friend’s face.

“The Théâtre National de l’Opéra,” responded she.

“The supposedly haunted one?”

  
“The _confirmed _to be haunted one,” she corrected, “won’t it be exciting? We can be involved in the mystery of the opera ghost ourselves! More importantly though, I hear they pay well. Won’t you apply with me?” 

You were silent.

“Oh, come now, won’t you apply with me?”

You remained silent.

She prodded you.

“Oh, very well, I will.”

She smiled brightly at you and your heart softened. If you were with Joséphine, you knew whichever company you went to would be tolerable. 

“You still can’t make me believe there is an opera ghost though. What does an opera ghost even look like?”

“Ooh, I hear he looks hideous!”

For a moment, you were reminded of the faceless man in the black cloak; he described himself as hideous…

But that is most absurd to think, you reminded yourself, ghosts do not exist, and even if they did, what would a ghost be doing walking around in plain sight?

  
“How is it you know so much of this opera ghost?” 

Though, knowing your friend, she probably had a closeted interest in all things unusual.

“One cannot help but hear rumors…it’s enough to interest anyone in investigating.”

“What if I am rejected?” 

That would be most unfortunate indeed. You did not want to part with Joséphine. 

“That’s simple: we can just apply for a different one. We have enough experience to be an attractive choice to any decent company. Besides, we are young and pretty, so we are sure to find something. I reckon that’s all they really care for anyway: a reputable company name and a pretty face.” 

She was indeed right about the show going on the road. By the performers’ exit and entrance was a sign-up sheet for joining the show pasted to the door. 

You did not fill in your name.

…

That night, you did not see the strange man as you walked home. Instead, you felt an uncomfortable prickling on the back of your neck that itched at you to turn and detect whoever was looking at you. All the times you checked, you found that there was nothing—or rather no one—following you. If there was anything, it was only a street rat scuttling by behind you.

However, upon nearly arriving at the apartment entrance, the eerie feeling subsided. You could only believe that whatever it was, it was of no threat nor importance. 

* * *

The time of the show was nigh. Nerves and the contagious excitement filled the air: an invisible haze that infected everyone and you were no exception. 

Your limbs were quivering in anticipation and you could not keep a steady hand as you slipped into your costume, pasted the stage make-up onto your face, or fixed your hair.

  
Even after years of experience, the pre-show jitters and nervousness still affected you, though abided a bit in intensity. You suspected it affected Joséphine as well since your friend tended to fall into bouts of silence before each other numerous shows the two of you had partaken in. 

Time passed at a snail’s pace, and the heavy sensation in your stomach (as though you were housing a lead weight) sunk deeper. 

And then, inevitably, the show had to start. Sooner than you would have liked it, you and the other group of background performers entered the stage. Before you knew it, your short solo part was upcoming. The performance of your part went fairly smoothly and without hitch until—

Oh… 

Stress devoured you and you instinctively froze. 

Your mind went blank and as desperately as you tried you could not remember what you needed to do next. 

  
A major character had just delivered a humorous line and you were supposed to respond in some way. But how?

The character you were playing was supposed to be sweet, that much you knew. Latching onto that bit of understanding, you improvised and smiled sweetly, unintentionally making your unnamed character seem a bit thickheaded. 

The stress did not subside at the audience’s unexpected laughter, but reassured you into keeping the sweet smile on your face as you rejoined your fellow background dancers. 

You could not be more relieved when you exited stage into the wings with your group.

“I’m so embarrassed, Joséphine,” you whispered, “I completely forgot my line.”

“It’s alright because whatever you did, the audience loved it.” She smiled reassuringly at you.

“The managers are going to have my head!” You whispered anxiously. 

“They probably won’t care or notice as long as it does well for them, and if the reactions are anything to go off of then they’ll probably sing praises to the heavens.”

The audience certainly loved you. At curtain call, when your group stepped out and bowed, you received more applause than typical, and you were certain they were cheering for you when each individual bowed and the applause redoubled after your turn. 

Joséphine was right; the managers were indeed thrilled with your improvisation, especially after the nice bit of coverage your performance drew from the theatre periodical: _Chorus Girl Charms Audience. _You could not deny the thrill that went through you as you read your name and saw a sketch of your figure. Despite your years of experience, you had never had such praise and publicity before, and the feeling left you with a high that you could not shake off for days. 

The managers praised, and you got the distinct feeling that they wanted you to go on tour with the show, but Joséphine’s advice lingered in your brain.

You did not want to be struggling on a scarce paycheck, and despite the managers’ offers to raise your pay, you knew you would not go. You already had a nice flat to live in, and you weren’t interested in traveling nomadically through the country. Home had a certain security and comfort as well as your friends and acquaintances. They were something you were unwilling to give up. 

* * *

Eventually, the day came when the performance went on tour and new work needed to be found. 

You walked with your friend that morning to the Théâtre National de l’Opéra.

You questioned the doorman, “Excuse me, monsieur, we would like to speak to the managers of the theatre,” The man looked at you calculatingly.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you proceeded to give him your names. 

The doorman gave you vague directions to the office, and with only marginal difficulty, the two of you managed to find the office of “M. Armand” and “M. Firmin”. 

Not knowing which one to knock upon, you chose one at random.

M. Armand admitted the two of you.

Based on your initial impression, the man seemed to be a genial and charismatic fellow. 

“You want a part in the ensemble?”

“We’d both like to be in together.”

“What are your names again?”

You repeated what you had told the doorman.

“Oh! You were the one featured in the periodicals, weren’t you?”

Your heart hammered excitedly.

“You both have experience?”

And upon mentioning the previous company, he appeared to be already sold. You were not surprised if the company was desperate for people.

And not so miraculously, the two of you got in together.

The best thing about it all was that they complied with your demands for higher pay. In all honesty, you weren’t surprised: you had discovered from chatting with some of the other girls that many workers had quit the theatre from the rumors of the ghost that seemed permeate the building down to the very core. The _Faust _incident provided no aide to that. 

The first few days of rehearsal passed by without hitch, and you were lead to believe that the sensational stories about the theatre were merely that: stories. 

Besides, the performers here were much less focused on their performance as much as they were interested in chittering with each other; all of their heads seemed to be stuck in the clouds. 

You overheard their talk about how the opera ghost had suddenly disappeared with apparent relief, but you could also sense the disappointment: what else would they chatter about?

Until one day—

_Snap!_

You and the band of girls you were with jolted. Walking by the lower levels of the opera house was always unpleasant: it was dark, the air was musty, and it gave one an unnerving feeling the more time spent in the miserable place. 

Though it was generally an unpleasant place, you were certain the trapdoors were not supposed to open or close of their own accord. 

There were some screams as the group of you hurried quicker and closer to the higher levels, and for once, you shared in the sentiment. Someone was down there. The thought sent your heart racing faster. 

Once nearer to the surface, your fellow dancers started muttering about the revival of the opera ghost, but with a clearer mind, you discerned that it was likely not the supernatural specter. 

“Come now,” you addressed the group, “it was likely just a crew member playing a cruel joke on us.”

A smaller girl with brown ringlets formed in a half updo hesitantly spoke up, “But…it must be the opera ghost; I felt someone looking at us, and when I turned to look I saw a hand…” she trailed off and took a shaky breath, “it was just a glimpse as it closed the trapdoor, but the hand…it looked shriveled…” she shuddered, “…so hideous that it could only have belonged to a corpse. It must have been him!”

You could not say anything to that. She was either telling a bold lie or a truth, but given her shaken state, you could not help but believe her. 

Rumors were undoubtedly spread, and despite your normal skepticism, you felt the overcast of fear affect you as well. Whenever you went anywhere, you started to band together with the other performers in tightly-knit groups.

Your fear was exacerbated by the disconcerting feeling you started getting the day after the trapdoor incident.

You arrived at the theatre that day with the incident of the previous day nearly forgotten and prepared for rehearsals as per usual. 

You were happy that, despite the sudden change in company and environment, you could retain your comforting habit of chatting with Joséphine backstage. 

“I’m telling you, the opera ghost is back! He has done away with Christine Daáe and now he is looking for his next victim!”

It appeared that she had absorbed the active imagination of everyone else in the place.

“Sure,” you responded dismissively.

“It’s true,” insisted your friend, “I wonder who it will target?” A sly look came upon her face. “Perhaps you, the nonbeliever?"

“Oh shush,” you lightly pushed her, unable to be too annoyed with her.

Then your cue to enter stage sounded, and you waltzed onto the stage. The other background performers followed you. 

The management promoted your role, much to your joy, to that of a recurring character. M. Armand seemed to think favorably from your feature in the magazine. M. Firmin was irritable and rather dislikeable, but he at least did not counter his fellow’s decision to elevate your role. 

You were finally going somewhere with your career, and your fantasies about being a star seemed just a little bit closer in reach. 

  
You then felt the tingling feeling on the back of your neck, and your skin was overtaken with goose pimples.

Someone was watching you.

You didn’t know why it perturbed you so, there were many people who had their eyes on you to some capacity: the managers, your troop of dancers, other actors. 

You went through your lines and performance with trepidation. 

But this feeling…

It was the feeling of unrelenting eyes trained on you, and solely you. Unlike the non-perturbing glances and eyes of those around you. 

You covertly looked around you, but you could not find your observer no matter which way you turned your head. 

But you were an actress, and you could not let a stare detract from your performance. 

You redirected all your stray energy into your performance, but you could not shake the feeling no matter how much you tried. 

Relief finally came when you exited into the wings. The burning gaze at last subsided there. 

“I felt someone watching me during my performance, Joséphine,” but before she could say anything you continued on, “and it felt as though it was from afar, and I could not find the culprit no matter how much I looked.”

Your companion’s normally bubbly manner dropped and she looked scared, something you had hardly ever seen on her. 

“I’m worried for you, ______,” she gripped onto your arm, “I was jesting earlier, but now I am serious in my concern.”

“You think the supposed opera ghost is targeting me?”

She didn’t answer, but merely said, “Just be careful,”

Her warning left a sour note in your mouth. You may have been skeptical, but you weren’t tactless, nor were you dumb. You would take caution. At the very least, there was a very annoying and troublesome mischief-maker running about, and you didn’t want to be subject to any troubles.

…

It was the end of the day, and you were eager to return to the safety of your flat. You walked by your lonesome down the halls. It was then you perceived something unusual: the shadows seemed a bit strange. Instead of the dark mirrors they were supposed to be, you felt as though they were active and alive and there was the familiar sensation on the back of your neck. It was as if—

You heard something: a small sound that sounded like a whisper. 

You increased your pace a bit. It was then you noticed that there was not just one whisper, but a cacophony of whispers. 

You were alone.

The frequency of your steps increased until they matched the multitudinous beats of your heart, and then you were finally out the doors of the theatre and on the streets.

Even as you walked on the streets, you felt the staring. When you dared to turn your head to peer over your shoulder, you only saw the dark shadows.

You needed no further impetus to dash the remaining distance to your flat. You did not feel safe until you entered the building, until you went up the stairwell, until you were inside your apartment. 

You were safe now. 

Your breathing was heavy from the sprint and you slumped tiredly into your cushioned chair. Everything was well now, there was no reason to be frightened anymore, but then why was your heart beating so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Théâtre National de l’Opéra= The name retained by the Palais Garnier from 1870-1939.


	5. Letters

That night was plagued by nightmares: nightmares of figures watching and waiting; of eyes staring so intensely that they scalded your skin, and which startled you awake more than once; a figure concealed in black dragging you from your bed, and a cold hand covering your mouth before you could scream; the blackness swallowing you as the sunlight abandoned you to the shadowy foe. 

But when the morning light finally came, you were relieved from your misery and you could see clearly that you were, in fact, well and safe. The cheery rays of sun brought with them a fresh reassurance that the night shadows and terrors could not harm you. 

The streets felt, once more, safer to walk on, and there was no sinister feeling of eyes. The normalcy of the morning emboldened you with a rush of confidence and gaiety. 

Rehearsals began and you felt no eerie prickling sensation on the back of your neck. Whoever was watching you had disappeared, and hopefully, would never return. 

There was nothing to indicate that your previous night’s scare was anything more than a momentary fright. Perchance it was an illusion, an over-exaggeration of the mere scurrying of rats on the streets by your tired mind. 

A black-feathered bird cried hoarsely overhead. 

Nervous energy hung in the air of the theatre that day like thick cotton, propagated by nervous muttering and dramatic glances cast by the dancers with more sensational minds. After the incident with the trapdoor, it became commonplace to have spotted the phantasmal presence. Indeed, it seemed that everyone had seen the ghost at least once. Yet in spite of the mayhem caused by yesterday’s incident, you could only feel peaceful and lackadaisical. 

Maybe you were just suffering from flights of fancy yesternight. Perhaps there were no eyes, no disembodied whispers, no watchful gaze. Mayhap the easily excitable and overgrown imaginations of the people here had affected you more than you thought. 

  
  


* * *

When you returned to retrieve your coat after a long day’s work, you felt a foreign object against your back. Had something gotten stuck in your coat?

Taking off the garment, you examined it only to find a safety pin affixing a letter to the inside of your coat.

You unfastened the safety pin and tore off the tongue of the envelope, unfolding the letter inside. The paper was scented pleasantly: an expense that you could not imagine anyone you knew taking. 

On the paper was writing scribbled in clumsy penmanship: the letters were of unequal size and written with a flow of characters that were discordant at best owing to the unjoined letters. It was the writing of someone who seemed to have just grasped the concept of the alphabet.

_Dear Mlle. ________:_

_I wish, firstly, to express that it is my pleasure to be writing to you. I cannot disclose any details about my person, so I must ask that you do not take offense. I give you my assurance that I have no desire of ill-will toward you._

_I am of no significance: only a being who recognizes talent and genius, and though I do not wish to give the false impression of arrogance, an adept judge of character._

_You have my admiration in your skill, and in your kind spirit and level-headed outlook; your feature in the paper was most well-deserved. Your good character and talent do not go overlooked._

_I write to assure you that you have my confidence should you need assistance in anything. I’ve yet to find a better method of direct contact; all the same, should you wish to reply, leave any correspondence in the fifth box of the grand tier. Apologies for any inconvenience this serves to you, but this must suffice until more apt accommodations can be made. _

_I am most pleased to be able to introduce myself to you, and I only regret it could not have been in-person._

_Expect more to follow. _

_Always your humble servant, _

_Opera Ghost_

A cold feeling drained the life energy from you.

Now you knew reason to fear, and all the stress you had left behind found you once more, burying into your skin. Any small feeling of appreciation toward having someone flatter you was suffocated under the intense weight of your dread and panic.

You felt at that moment that all your fears were well-founded: this was the owner of the flaming eyes, the unabating gaze. And while you had nothing substantial to work off of, the succession of events was incriminating enough. 

The opera ghost was targeting you. Whether in kind nature and intention or otherwise, you were nonetheless being targeted. 

…

No, that couldn’t be true, and it was almost comical that you took it so seriously now in reflection. It had to be a prank; some ill-guided fool with idle hands thought it amusing to scare you half out of your mind, but you weren’t so naïve. What fool thought you would believe him if he proclaimed himself the feared opera ghost? Ghosts do not write letters to people, or it would be common knowledge. And where had your reason gone and forsaken you? You were supposed to be the experienced one: the one above such foolish beliefs! The opera ghost was a legend spread by gullible minds, and you were no such gullible mind. 

Yet some sliver of yourself prevented you from tossing the letter off as a complete joke. Maybe it was the thrill of receiving flattery, or perhaps it was for the same reason you began to look over your shoulder at night. After all, your supposed admirer was true to his word. Little time had elapsed when you found the familiar child-like scrawl on a note that was pinned inside your coat pocket this time.

_Dear Mlle. ______: _

_I mean not to disturb you at such a busy time, as you must be exhausted by the demands of your role and of the director and stage manager respectively. Your persistent work does not go unnoticed, nor does your aptitude for your role. I only wish to provide some clarity as to the purpose of my writing to you. _

_You must forgive the blunt wording but simply put, you have saved me. Death from love is a painful affair, and I owe it to you that I have found any will to continue at all, and I don’t just mean existence. Existence is a thoroughly pointless and idle pursuit, but I have managed to live. Your words have stuck with me long past our last parting, and I believe I have come to understand them. _

_More to follow._

_Sincerely yours,_

_The Opera Ghost_

Shock struck you when you at last made the connection between the mysterious man by the riverside and the author of the letters. The opera ghost was no supernatural specter, yet he did exist in the flesh as just a man. You had not expected to see the strange man ever again, but, as the saying goes, the past comes back to haunt you. Though, there was nothing haunting about a mortal opera ghost. 

It wasn’t long after that before you received a third, a fourth, a fifth letter. The stream of letters was unceasing. Each successive one was written with an increasing amount of familiarity and fondness until you were choking on the sweet words. 

Words that on a superficial level were sweet and agreeable put you on edge. Underneath the flattering surface was a far more sinister implication; how much had this person been watching you?

And it turned out those weren’t the end of your troubles, for once again you felt the intrusive gaze follow you throughout the theatre with a redoubled vigor. Sometimes it was uncomfortably obvious, and other times you wouldn’t have known if you didn’t find your head turning to dark, secluded corners followed by a feeling of absence, of relief from some heavy burden. You were certain there were times when you thought you were alone, but in actuality, were not alone. The most worrying part of everything was that now you could never be quite certain when you were being watched and when you weren’t, and that was what made you most stressed. It was what drove you mad. You could not be certain if, in your heightened sense of fear, you were imagining a blazing stare, or whether it was there.

Every sound and every shadow made you jump.

You had to take matters into your own hands, you decided one night; whoever it was that was watching you had to know your displeasure. Perhaps your expression of discomfort with his actions would make him stop. And so, you found yourself at your kitchen table with a piece of paper and a pen. You moved to write, but hesitated; how should you address this person? Should you use a cordial tone, or be to-the-point?

With much indecisiveness, you eventually settled on a polite salutation and amiable tone. For someone so willing to do something so invasive could only be in the mind of someone unhinged. You had to be careful; you could never tell how such people would react.

…

No.

No, no, no. 

The ridiculousness of the whole situation weighed on you. _You_ were the one had to be apologetic and concern yourself with upsetting the emotions of a fellow who had no concern for yours, nor for social boundaries? Perhaps your mind was being addled and your grasp on reality more shaken than you thought. 

Tearing apart the dainty letter that you had written, you took another sheet, and with far messier and passionate writing, you scribbled an angry note of desperation: a demand to stop. You slipped it in an envelope and scribbled the addressee on the back. 

You would take it to the theatre tomorrow, you decided. 

The following days passed like a bated breath: in a state of alternating relief and suspense of what was to come; assuredness that he was gone, and fear of the unnerving absence of his persistence; enjoyment of the reprieve the lack of your follower brought, and unease at its sudden disappearance. 

As it turned out, your relief was to be short-lived. Dread clogged your veins and filled your heart when you felt the safety-pinned note inside your coat pocket once more. Fumbling with the latch, you unhooked the safety pin and took the note attached to it into your fingers with shaking hands. 

_Mlle. _______:_

_I am most disappointed to learn of this. It has never been my intention to make you feel such a way. However, you should know that what I do is for your wellbeing. You will find it in your best interest to heed my words, however, and I find it most prudent that you understand this. _

_Sincerely yours, _

_Opera Ghost_

_“So be it,” _you decided, ignoring the uncomfortably informal tone for the moment, _“if he won’t be reasonable then I will bring this matter to light with the managers.”_

And you did, or that was your intention at least. For as soon as they caught sight of the disjointed scribble of handwriting, their faces paled as if they very well had seen a ghost before exchanging a shared look and ushering you out of the office with only the explanation that they would not be interfering with the ghost. Slighted, you turned to make a protestation only to have the door shut in your face.

It was clear the managers would not help you, and you doubted any more pleading would aide your case. You were on your own. 

The next note you found took a more menacing tone. 

_You will find that I am not so easily dissuaded. Let us keep this matter between the two of us._

_P.S. You will cease your nightly associations with your air-headed friend and the unscrupulous bachelors she brings with her. Should you continue, it is to only be between you and her. _

The hot rush of fear pulsed through your veins and prickled down your scalp. Your hands dampened with sweat. 

You were being threatened.

It was not only in the theatre that he followed you; he just as well admitted to invading your life outside as well.

Worst of all, you were alone in dealing with this. 

Your fear did not last long in the face of overwhelming indignation and rebellion. How dare he? How dare he think he had jurisdiction over your actions? How dare he pry into your life? You would associate with who you pleased when you wanted to, and he wouldn’t do anything to change that. 

The note crumpled in your hands and met its fate in your small fire stove. Watching the odious words char and disintegrate in the licking flames brought a thrilling satisfaction to your heart.

The last remnants of his threat shriveled to a small, burnt mass. 

  
  


* * *

Quite naturally, you paid no heed to his message, rather, redoubling the number of your outings.

Anxiety lingered in your muscles though, and despite knowing your life was your own, you could not help withholding your breath as you waited for him to react. It was the kind of peace that happens before a storm, and there is nothing worse than knowing that the storm was coming, but not being able to see much beyond that or do anything with what you do know except to wait. 

And as it so happened, the storm struck in the absence of preparation or guard, as so often they do. 

_Thump!_

The drop of the sandbag onto the ground was sudden, and sent a shockwave of surprise through all passersby. After the shock had died down, a sensational curiosity and outrage swept through the cast members. It must be intentional, one murmured. After all, sandbag counterweights did not fall of their own accord. It was in such an indignant state that the stage crew encountered a barrage of confused, indignant, and muttering performers. Some, including the members of the ballet, had taken to casting nervous overhead glances. 

What had shaken you most of all—aside from the initial surprise of the thing’s fall—was how close it had been to the Joséphine. She wobbled away, unsteady with fear as the chorus of girls supported her, unharmed. You had more than an inkling of certainty as to whose doing this was. 

When you managed to gather about your wits you embraced Joséphine tightly, and she seemed to intuitively understand your distress as she soothed you, having already overcome her own.

You didn’t know what you would do without her. 

  
  


* * *

Once more you felt a note pinned into your coat pocket that night. Your body burned with ire as you unhooked the note.

_Please know that I am acting in your own good, which you so often overlook. I advise you to listen if you do not wish for this to happen again._

_P.S. It would also be in your interest to listen to my previous request._

  
  


* * *

Your stomach churned with disgust, but you could not deny that you were scared. You couldn’t refrain from casting paranoid glances at the ceiling, expecting to see another sandbag dropping. You were frightened that this time, should it drop, it wouldn’t miss; the next time, someone would get hurt. 

  
  


* * *

“Are you coming?” Asked Joséphine  
  


“Actually, I can’t.”

“Really? May I ask why?”

You didn’t feel well, that was the reasoning you gave for receding into yourself. It was the reasoning you gave to yourself as you slowly disentangled your bonds with others and extrapolated yourself from socialization. More and more nights were spent at home. Flurrying thought was your sole companion as you sat in the silence of your own making. It was safer this way despite how much your aching heart might voice dissent.

  
It was not what he asked for, but perhaps everyone would be safer off if you kept your distance. 

And it pleased him so. He didn’t at last give up, as you had hoped. Rather, your degradation and isolation only sparked once more the letters of praise and admiration and gave his letters an unsettlingly pleased tone. 

  
You spent long and lonely nights in bed thinking about the situation and analyzing each detail, everything you knew that had transpired. Seconds passed by, minutes, maybe hours puzzling over what course of action to take. You couldn’t tell when you had fallen asleep, as sleep was blurred with your hazy memory in an indiscernible gradient. Sleep was only experienced as a waking daze: the fuzzy feeling of being underwater and only realizing you were when you resurfaced. The feeling carried through your days at the theatre as well: as if you were fighting through a deadening and heavy fog to move and perform in ways not nearly so difficult before. You would be able to sleep for a lifetime when you got home, if only such a luxury was available to you. You didn’t know what it was that kept your eyes open and your head buzzing at night. 

Perhaps it was the whispering you were certain you could hear, but when you listened closely you were only met with silence; the rustle of a billowing cloak in empty corridors that emanated from somewhere beyond the walls; the persistent influx of mail from a certain anonymous someone…

If anything good came out of your insomnia, it was that you were just a bit closer to figuring out the identity of your stalker. 

It was someone who knew their way around the building…that was for sure: someone who knew the movements of all the occupants to a precise detail. Perhaps someone who had been there for many years…

A soft gasp drew your attention back to the outside world. “______, you look…”

It was Joséphine. 

“You look…tired.” 

You looked in a mirror. Swollen half circles stood out prominently on your face and your eyelids sagged over your eyes. Your skin looked duller than usual.

“How is your health? Is everything alright with you?” Her question was cautious: delicately-worded. 

“Oh, I don’t know at this point,” you replied feeling the fatigue. She moved to sit on a stool opposite you.

“I just—” 

There was movement: the movement of something dark and ambiguous in your peripheral vision. When you turn your head to look, there was nothing there. 

“Are you alright? You’re suddenly quiet; is something amiss?”

“I’m alright, I…” But you saw another one; they’re shadows, you realize, but who was moving? You looked around the room, but there was no possibility it could have belonged to anyone, and why would there be shadows in a well-lit room?

…

Why _were_ there shadows in a well-lit room?

“What are you looking at?”

That’s when you heard whispering. It isn’t sudden nor abrupt; it felt as if it has been there all along, and you’d just entered another’s conversation. 

No one in the room was whispering.

  
The panic was rising, and you were close to drowning in it. Why are you hearing noises that weren’t really there?

The whispers turned to something different; something frighteningly familiar. 

“_What is it that sounds so familiar?”_

They sound as if they are speaking words: words you should recognize, and it feels as though a strange garbled muffle keeps you from understanding it properly.

You focus, setting aside the distraction of Joséphine’s voice that drifts in the background, prying her hand off your shoulder. 

The sounds connected together, and their words made sense now. You know what they are saying now, and you feel as though the blood is draining out of your body.

Your name echoed from all the dark corners of the room, interjecting other whispers, and layering on top of each other.

From every dark recess, the shadows called your name, but you can not tell whether they are talking about you, or whether they are calling to you.

Then a clear and distinct shadow formed: a silhouette of a person.

You don’t remember what happened next, only that you were screaming, and in your rush to stand, you trip over the stool you had been sitting on and tumble to the floor. In the midst of your fall your vision darkened until the blackness was all you could see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any constructive feedback to give, I would love to hear it as unlike writing an essay, there isn't anyone I give this to critique since it's incredibly personal and not something I would any of my relations in real life to see.
> 
> \-----  
Notes:
> 
> "Always your humble servant..."  
I know that in the book the Phantom of the Opera closes one of his letters as "Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant" and I think this has garnered some attention (especially in the musical), but it was actually a common and polite way to end letters for the time period, just like "Kind Regards" which he also uses to close letters. Another closing was "I remain Sir, &c. &c." which was shorthand for "Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant".
> 
> "Sincerely yours..."  
This is actually a pretty informal closing and one that you would use with friends or such from my understanding; it's not valediction you would use in a formal letter with someone you don't really know. 
> 
> "The drop of the sandbag..."  
Sandbags are used as counterweights to theatre sets sometimes. 
> 
> "From every dark recess, the shadow called your name..."  
I am taking a bit of a supernatural and fantastical interpretation. It will not interfere with the story or character in a consequential way.


	6. The Beginning of the End

When you awaken, you are surrounded by other dancers in their gauze skirts and slippered feet. You hear a low murmuring, which sounds distinctly different from the inhuman whispers of the darkness. 

You push yourself up from the ground, dazed. Where are you? What happened? Where are the shadows? Are you safe?

“She’s awake!”

Many arms helped you up onto your surprisingly feeble legs, easing you into the chair.

“What happened to you?”

“I…”

Uncertainty clouds over your memories in a vague, fog-like vapour.

“How long was I unconscious for?”

“A minute or so,” piped a dancer with a high-strung voice.

There was silence, and by the inquisitive faces that stared at you, you knew they wanted answers: an explanation. The only trouble was that you couldn’t very well remember either. 

“You suddenly fainted,” started Joséphine in a quiet voice, breaking the skin of the uncomfortable silence, “you seemed nervous, and then suddenly you were screaming hysterically. Do you remember? What happened?”

Her words trigger your memory, and the confounding veil over your memory lifts. You remember all that had transpired: the voices, the shadow, the darkness that clawed at your vision…

You stand abruptly from your seat. 

“Someone is here! I saw a man…a dark shadow…” you whisper in a trembling voice, pointing a shaky finger toward the wall where the shadow had been. 

The dancers share uneasy glances with each other with one unanimous thought: the opera ghost.

“You saw him?” Whispers an anonymous someone.

“I saw a shadow…over there,” you reiterate with more confidence.

A brave few dancers begin tiptoeing about the room in a manner similar to frightened children checking the dark recesses for monsters. The rest cling together in tight groups with frightened gazes tracing after the foolhardy black sheep who chose to stray from the safety of the herd. 

“You saw him in this room?” A girl asks you.

You merely nod.

“Oh no, oh no! It’s him! It’s the ghost!” Cries the same girl sensationally with a teary, frightened countenance, “He’s come back with vengeance! He did away with Bouquet, then Daáe, and now we’ll be next!” Her words become punctuated by her incessant sobbing, “He’ll kill us! He’ll kill us all!”

She immediately collapses into consoling arms. 

  
Her outburst inspires frightened voices and conjectures from many as the group weaves itself more tightly; you are silently meshed into the huddle. 

And despite the tangible fear that permeates the room, the glint of curiosity finds itself alight in the hearts of the trembling dancers around you.

“What did he look like?”

“Did you glimpse his face? How horrible did it look?”

A barrage of excited questions and eager looks train themselves onto you. 

Lightheaded with paranoia and dizzy with fear, the questions and attention overwhelm your normally enduring constitution. With the same uncharacteristic feebleness that seized you earlier, you wobble in your balance and would have plummeted to the floor if not for the stabilizing arms of the dancers.

The kind and pretty Joséphine takes charge of settling you down into the chair once more.

“Let her rest; she is clearly exhausted from the whole ordeal,” declares she, fending off the pestering of the girls.

Joséphine drops to your side, gripping your hand and gently pats it. 

“After you’ve had your time to recover, you are going to tell me what has happened to you.” Joséphine looks you in the eye with a rare maturity, “you aren’t behaving like the friend I know. The you I know doesn’t faint over shadows. Don’t even try to refute that you are undergoing some strain.”

“I…” you hesitate, “I don’t know if I can tell you.”

“Well, you’re going to have to try. There is something clearly wrong. Just look at you; you look prepared to meet with death!” Her serious gaze softens into a caring one, “Don’t push yourself. I know you can get through whatever it is that has been troubling you. Take your time to articulate what needs to be said.”

“Josésphine, thank you. I don’t know what I’d—what was that?”

“Wha—“

“Shh!” You interrupt, “everyone, be quiet! I hear something!” 

The room falls silent at your commanding tone. In the presence of the silence, the soft rustle of silk fabric is faintly audible with a clarity of sound only possible either in or directly outside the room.

The shrill voice of a young girl is the first to break the horrified trance that freezes the room.

“It’s him…it’s the Phantom of the Opera!” 

Several girls cling together trembling to death. Paled faces wide with fearful expressions are trained on the door. 

A rising panic seizes your senses, and all you know is that every fibre in your body and mind unanimously urge you to flee. 

You _must _escape. 

Your legs fling you from your chair and you wildly scramble toward the door. You would’ve made it to your destination had Josephine’s steely grip not been trained on you.

“_____, you mustn’t strain yourself further. All you need to do is—” her next words are punctuated by her heavy breathing as she fights to restrain your violent flailing, “—sit. In. The. Chair.”

A few other girls who have not altogether lost their senses assist her in her cause. 

One of the volunteers attempts to soothe you as well, “Do you wish to die? It’s not safe to leave! You heard him; the Phantom is out there!”

But all you can think about to yourself is that they are surely mad! He is in the room with you; you are certain, and you must escape! You twist and thrash your arms about, trying to rip yourself away from their grasps.

“No!” You cry, “no! Don’t you see? He’s here. He’s here! I have to escape! I have to escape!” He’ll surely do away with you if you stay any longer! 

“No, ____, what you need is to rest; you’re exhausting yourself,” explains Joséphine, in 

a maddeningly kind and patient tone.

You’re stress and paranoia heightens into delirium, and all words fall deaf on your overwhelming instinct to flee.

“No! No, no, no, no, no, NO! Unhand me this instant! I need to get away! Release me! RELEASE ME!” 

And finally, you wrench free of the restraining grips to dash out of the room and away from the shadows, away from your whispered name, away from the rustling silk, and away from the man who is most certainly set on destroying you.

Your feet carry you through the corridors of the opera house. It doesn’t matter where are you going so long as your legs carry you somewhere far away. 

  
And so you end up in the grand house where the stage and audience converge. From your current vantage point, the familiar stage looks foreign. The set stands proudly on the stage in want of finishing details. All the usual stagehands are absent—done for the day. Darkness paints the house in the absence of the brilliant gas lighting normally lit for the esteemed audience. 

Somehow, the grand scale of the space is comforting. You can’t say you’ve much appreciated the theatre before, but in the present moment, it is breathtakingly grand. Somehow, the large scale soothes you. You are an ant in comparison to the great space, and so are all your problems. 

Your vision blurs, and in an instant, you break down sobbing, sinking into one of the velvet seats. Your tears and sniffles echo throughout the vacant, colossal theatre. All your stress and fear manifest in your anguished meltdown. 

“Tell me,” you ask, in part to yourself and in part to the man that has taken to tailing you, “am I going mad?”

Silence gives you its greetings. 

You sniffle, wiping your tear-streaked face with your sleeves.

“I know you aren’t going to answer,” you begin, taking slow breaths to calm you from your outburst. You make up your mind right then and there that this must come to an end. You can’t handle this anymore.

Speaking with slow and deliberate word choice, you continue, “Monsieur, if you’re there like I think you are, it’s time we finally met…it’s time we’ve—you’ve—stopped this game of watching me. Let’s meet—just the both of us—on the rooftop at nightfall in…in exactly one week from now.” 

  
You aren’t a fool. You would bring a weapon at the minimum. Ideally, another person who would believe you enough to accompany you, and with any luck, you would catch him. 

Once more, silence is the only response you receive. You aren’t even sure anyone is there. And feeling rather foolish for talking to someone you cannot make certain is there, you scurry away. 

But as it turns out, he was audience to both your meltdown and speech as evidenced by the letter you find and the delicate handkerchief attached.

_Dear Mlle. _______,

_It most disturbs me to see you in tears. I do not wish to be a cause of distress to you, nor do I wish to see you in a state of such sorrow. Please accept this as a token of my remorse for harming you in anyway. You are my sun and purpose—the reason I live._

_As for meeting, it would be my greatest pleasure to do so. I’ve envisioned the day where we would at least meet in person (properly this time), and it seems as though that most beautiful day draws rapidly closer._

_You needn’t trouble yourself with any of the arrangements you proposed; leave the task to me. I will find you at the opportune time._

_Expect to meet soon._

_Sincerely yours,_

_The Phantom of the Opera_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fret over the title of this chapter. This is not the end of the story. It only signifies the idea of the beginning of an end. I hope you feel refreshed for the new year and enjoyed the holiday season.


	7. Scopaesthesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel the eyes. You feel them constantly, but when you look into the shadows to try to discern their owner, there is no one there. 
> 
> The shadows.
> 
> They follow you everywhere, and not in a way that a shadow naturally should. When it is quiet, you can hear their faint whisperings.
> 
> But no one else seems to hear them. No one else believes you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you can tell me whether you'd like an objectively good or bad ending. 
> 
> Also check chapter 4 for a new footnote.

The conceit of dancers in this modern age was palpable more now than ever, decided the grumbling stage manager as your absence once again became apparent during role call. During his youth, no person would ever dare to suppose their rising popularity would become acceptable for unexcused holiday, sniffed he, spinning wild tales of your most certain arrogance to himself. 

He had seen such arrogance with other rising performers such as yourself, thought the stage manager to himself. They started off as pretty, sweet girls with unassuming demeanours, but then the fame swelled their heads and their mannerisms as well. Innocent, sweet girls became conceited women, and they adapted to the new roles very well.

The stage manager’s momentary relapse into nostalgia and disdain shattered when he at once became aware of the dramatic glances and the tense chatter that filled what should have been the place of ordered silence.

Even his strict reprimanding could not sufficiently draw back the focus of the group.

“What has worked up your silly minds into such disorganisation?! Have the group of you lost all discipline? Silence yourselves!”

  
The dancers, upbraided in their own anxiety, took no slight.

Someone of the group eventually worked up the courage to address the manager directly.

“Sir, it’s the phantom! It surely did away with her! That’s why she’s been absent all this time!” Cried the girl with a face contorted in fear.

To this, the stage manager had nothing to say. 

Another wave of murmured conversation swept over the group.

“It must be so! Did you hear the way she was talking? She must have done something foolish and attracted his wrath!”

“I knew something like this would happen! The premonition struck me since the new managers took charge, and I felt absolutely certain when Daáe vanished that something similarly unfortunate would happen again!”

“That’s always the case with ghosts and monsters: their savageness and desire for carnal destruction know no bounds. The moment there is one victim, there is sure to be another!”

Even the bravest of the troop had fallen prey to fear; she could offer no stirring call for bravery, nor gentle comfort to her friends, one of whom had fallen into a panicked trance murmuring “it’ll eat us all” in repetition to herself. 

The phantom once more had returned, everyone had been sure of this for some time. It came as particularly troubling news to the young, hopeful dancers and singers who dreamed of one day becoming the focus of the limelights.

  
To anyone with an ounce of fear and reason, it was evident that the ghost was a monster who prowled anonymously throughout the opera in search of young girls to kidnap. The first victim had been Daáe, and you had been the next.

Some with more fantastically-bent minds even insisted that he kept the bones in the bottom-most depths of the opera.

Joséphine furrowed her brow in a thoughtful, concerned manner. Where had you gone? 

Not a person received whisper of your sudden flight. One day, you were there, though in a rather fractured frame of mind, and then for the many after, you were simply not. Your costume hung despairingly on its rack, and every other trace of you had been left as it was. 

The first day of your absence she consoled herself with the thought that you were ill, and everything about the way you looked that day had suggested it. She was only able to convince herself of such thoughts for the first few times though, and as your absences stretched into a week, she reasonably began to panic. 

There was serious, almost certain reason to consider your disappearance to be linked to the opera ghost. Isn’t that what you had driven yourself to madness over that day? You had a level head and would not succumb to such madness of thought easily. 

Joséphine prayed earnestly for your return, _“Come back. Please come back. I miss you.”_

She would never teaze you again if she only saw that you were well and safe, Joséphine promised to herself. 

Any who knew her well would protest that it was an oath she could not keep. 

* * *

The truth was, in fact, less morbid than everyone had convinced themselves it was. 

You could not recall the last time you had seized the opportunity to visit your parents. They were the delightful sort of parents that any person would declare to be a most agreeable if not cloying sort of people. You were most grateful to have them; for the matter of your sex was no transgression to them, and they loved you with the same tenderness as you were than if you had been born a boy. 

Fair chance had not gazed so kindly upon every girl.

They extended the most pleasant welcome when you turned up unannounced upon their doorstep with a sickly face. 

  
Mother insisted that you should visit more often, and father reiterated numerous times that it was a most welcome occurrence to see you again. 

“You don’t look very well,” told your mother, and the touch of her fingers upon your cold and pallid face took the place of the explanation you couldn’t bring forth.

Off to bed it was for you.

You could only feel relief that your parents managed as they were. It was of utmost comfort to you to see that they could afford the expense of their own housing. It wasn’t every day that you could manage to send them a sum of money, but when chance struck lucky, you could send the spare to ease your mother and father’s troubles. It’s the least you could do. You wouldn’t wish them the horrors of a poorhouse. 

Even someone as moved to fear as you could feel the healing effects of parental care on your physical wellbeing. For once, you felt the carefree ease of being a child again; that ease was a stranger to you for so long, and you had never before known how much you needed it. 

  
The mark of your rapid recovery was your state of mind, fragile though its improvement was, no longer meditated on the cloaked stalker of the opera house. Upon such positive grounds, the seeds of optimism sewed themselves. You managed to be able to incubate even a single uplifting thought.

Inevitably, your mending state of mind reaped physical wellness in turn. 

Your face, previously paler and more sickly than it ought to have looked flushed with the emergence of its healthy natural colour. Dull and weary eyes brightened.

And with such recovery, under the doting care of sweet parents, you could not help that you believed that you truly were recovering from the wretch that misfortune moulded you into. 

Under the eroding qualities of change and time, you had nearly forgotten how dear your parents were to your heart. How opulent to be with the two people who most loved you! 

_“How does it feel to love and feel the same love in return?”_

  
In spite of the despicable man whom the question originated, the thought held reign over your mind. The warmth that filled your breast must be it, and the empty yearning that came after it to spoil sweetness into bittersweetness—the foreknowledge of your impending departure. 

You could not stay forever. 

A career awaited for you, which you surely would face consequences in from your sudden absence.

Hesitancy plagued you. You didn’t want to return, not to your mad stalker who had made your life hell.

Should you go to the _gendarmerie_?

The ridiculousness struck you profoundly. Who would believe you? A girl with proclaiming a need for protection from a silly monster, that as far as anyone was concerned, was a story told to frighten children into obedience. And even if they were humoured into believing you, what could anyone do? Send a _gendarme _to wave about a torch down into the darkest depths of the opera house to clear the cobwebs and frighten away all the little spiders dwelling there? What would they find? How would a man who frightened you to the brink of insanity without revealing any part of his identity that he did not explicitly wish to share be caught by the _gendarmerie_? How would a man who could seemingly walk invisibly through the walls and cast an all-knowing gaze upon all the happenings in your life without ever showing his presence be caught? How could he be caught at all?

You were so alone, so terribly alone in this whole ordeal. Not even amiable companionship of your most trusted friend could save you. Nothing could save you.

But at present, you were safe. You were with loving people in a place where even _he_ could not find you. He may try to force his way into a life that was never due to cross with his, but he could not know everything about you. 

Though…

  
You did not want to return, not back to the reason for your undoing. And yet, if you followed the whim of your heart, you would need to find some other employment. Only misery and poverty come to the unlucky who do not have the privilege of leaving the womb mouthing on a silver spoon. 

Your parents were close to you: too close that they had undue sway over your thoughts than they ought to have.

Orange fire illuminated the stove and melted your mind and tongue into freely spilling their contents. 

Mother occupied herself with needlework, her attention slowly being stolen away by conversation.

Father stared contemplatively into the blaze. 

“Well, dear, if you really loathe your return, why don’t you stay here with us?”

Her proposition silenced you.

“You know that your father and I have long had differing opinions on your involvement with theatre.”

  
Ah, how could you have forgotten? Now they would lecture their gentle disapproval of your liberal choice of life.

“It would be so much easier for a poor, overworked girl like you to settle for an agreeable young man that can help support you,” persuaded she, kindly. 

“And besides,” interjected your father, “you hardly ever visit us. We worry a great deal, you know. It is no secret that we are ageing, that I am ageing, and your mother is approaching a precarious situation of vulnerability.”

  
“How wicked of you to pressure me like that!” You cried, not all too aggrieved.

They continued, “We worry over you, dear. You’ve set about carving yourself a very radical path, and though we’ve never had the intention to constrain you, we just want you to have a secure future.”

“Think it over,” interjected your father, “the last thing we’d want is for your insecurity of position. The world is bleak and unforgiving, and we don’t want you to fall at its mercy.” 

Even after all your recent success and relative prosperity in theatre, you fell amenable to their words. Your parents were ageing; that was true. Perhaps it would be better for the sake of you and your parents to marry. 

But who would take care of you? You hadn’t spent the time fostering advantageous connections. And even so, no man affluent enough to support you would go so beneath himself as to marry someone of your position, even the silliest of minds would understand thus. 

The only conclusions you could firmly draw was that marriage would be a hindrance. To support yourself, you would still be in need of work. 

Even though your heart was rife with doubt and insecurity about returning, you could not overlook why you joined the profession to begin with. Theatre was where you could support yourself, and you were lucky enough to enjoy it despite the hard work it demanded of you. You did not hide in the shadow of ignorance: dancing was for women of loose morals and had no place in respectable society, and what had society done to save your family from the struggle of existence cursed upon the conditions of your life? But such thoughts did little to help you.

With such a decision, you parted with your parents, exchanging earnest wishes to visit more frequently. 

  
  


* * *

When you returned to the opera house, you were met with little the incredulity and severeness that you expected, but with watery eyes and immense relief that you were safe and well, that you had not joined the phantom’s bone collection. Though, it seemed that the management had a different take. Firmin Richard’s temper did not allow him to say quite the number of kind sentiments the corps de ballet did. You would like to say you withstood his anger with bravery. Moncharmin was far more merciful. 

Courage, as you had not known it since _his _arrival, emboldened you. No longer would he subject you to terror. If Lady Luck aided you, perhaps, you dared hope, he might even leave you be. 

  
After a day’s work, the evening becomes late, and it is time for you to return to your flat. 

It is then, as you traverse the halls, that the warning cry of danger calls from every muscle in your body, and though you cannot elucidate the feeling into rationality, your most primal of instincts knows you to be in danger.

You feel the eyes: the burning eyes. They are the eyes of a man who is set on your demise.

They’re present constantly, but when you turn your head over your shoulder to look into the shadows and discern their owner, there is no one there.

  
And all you can do is liven your pace. You wish most earnestly you were not alone in the corridor melted with shadows, cursing all bravery that beguiled you out of your defences on account of false safety. 

The harmless darkness of the shadows turns to something sinister and alive. They follow you everywhere, and not in a way that a shadow naturally should. In your present solitude and in the quiet of nighttime, you can hear their faint whisperings.

Each day of this is driving you has driven you closer to desperation, and you only managed to save yourself from plummeting off the edge. The shadows won't stop watching you; they won't stop whispering!

But tonight, in the hall of the shadows, under your own hurried paces, you swear you can hear another set of footsteps as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teaze=archaic spelling of "tease"
> 
> poorhouse=people in poverty worked in poorhouses before government institutions supporting the poor. People able to work did so in exchange for a place to sleep and food. Conditions were unsanitary and dehumanizing--punishment for being poor.  
Read more: https://www.history.com/news/in-the-19th-century-the-last-place-you-wanted-to-go-was-the-poorhouse
> 
> gendarmerie= French police force
> 
> gendarme= police officer


	8. Descent Into Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! A quick update!
> 
> Description of strangulation. Please be wary if this is triggering for you.

Your heart cries in your ears. Your footsteps halt. You freeze.

The other pair halts as well. 

There would be silence save for the nefarious whispers of the shadows. Your uneasiness stews into rot in the murky false silence. 

And when you can manage to unstick your jaws, it is to feebly state: “You’re the _opera ghost_.”

You can not help but feel the power you give the man without intending to by affording him the frightening alias. 

Quiet. Even the shadows cease their chatter.

Breaking the silence, your heart leaps in terror, for you recognise the commanding voice to belong to no one else: 

“You will be good enough, mademoiselle, to neither turn about nor flee, or great misfortune will befall your silly friend.”

“You will do no such thing!” You cry, greatly distressed.

For all the intents behind your intimidation, you make no move, wavering in place. 

Silence.

“Do you intend to kill me?” You wonder aloud.

He does not answer your question, but speaks with deliberation as though you had not said anything:

“I had every intention of dying when first we met. I thought I had lived my happiest moment and I could perish content.”

_Tap tap_, he takes a step toward you as you lurch, fighting the desperate instinct of self-preservation urging you to run. You knew little about him, but what you did know was that his lingering threat was no bluff.

Joséphine nearly died because of him. He showed little evidence of mercy that would compel him to miss again. 

“You have saved me from that painful death with your kindness and wisdom, and for that, I can harbour nothing for you but adoration. You have given me reason to live, that love need not be a burning suffering, but a light joy.” 

“_How theatrically dramatic,” _you think to yourself.

“Then what are your intentions, and what is your reason for reducing me to such a miserable state?!” You exclaim passionately, “Because believe me, monsieur, if you take pleasure in making me a paranoid wretch, then I must congratulate you most wholeheartedly on your overwhelming success.”

“You have my most profound apologies, mademoiselle, for any suffering you have endured on my part. Any suffering I have caused was done with the intention of preventing more suffering in the future.”

“Pray tell!” You laugh vitriolically, “Please enlighten me, _monsieur!_ I’m afraid I do not share the same profound insight as to how degrading the soundness of my mind will reduce suffering for anyone.”

“It is reasoning best explained in a different setting,” explains he, serenely, “I ask your pardon, mademoiselle, for time is fleeting, and I most regret what is to follow.”

You need no further impetus to escape as nothing good can follow such a confession. It does not seem to matter that you have a head start though, for a bony appendage restrains your movement. A tightly-wound cloth finds its home around your neck, and as you open your mouth to cry for help, to protest your kidnap, to do anything that might save you from whatever it is he has planned for you, he interrupts you: 

“Should you scream, attempt escape, or struggle, you shall only cause pain for yourself.”

The cloth lasso around your throat tightens, and you are certain that should you move your neck out of place, it would choke you. 

With a softer tone, he continues:

“I loathe your pain, and greatest of all to be the cause of it. For both our sakes, mademoiselle, do not force me to that option.”

“Why are you doing this?” You plea. 

The man, for which you have no identifying trait other than his extreme slenderness, as though the skin was encasing bones, and a pleasing voice, pulls you with him as he makes his way to wherever it is he is headed.

“It is because I love you,” breathes the man, “because a creature as tender and beautiful as you—one who has shown me such kindness—should not be left to the withering harshness of the world.”

A clammy, skeletal finger gingerly touches the side of your face, yet he still holds the lasso taut against your throat, giving you little room to physically repulse from the frigid invasion of your space. 

“I need no protection! I have fended for myself and I am perfectly capable of doing so!” 

He carries on awkwardly shuffling you down a passage you know to hold the dressing-rooms of the most important singers, dancers, actresses; those elevated into success and whose names were printed in entertainment periodicals on the regular.

“You only say such things, mademoiselle, because you remain oblivious to the true horror of the world, as you should be, and as I will ensure that you remain.” 

With certainty, he stops before a particular dressing-room, one that you cannot recognise to be any more different than the others, and with a sudden stillness, he waits in silence. After ascertaining some uncertain thing, perhaps its vacancy, the opera ghost drags you inside with him. The room is dark and you can scarcely see a thing because of it, save the glint of a full-length mirror. 

The pseudo-phantom drags you to the wall opposite the mirror and makes some motion beyond your vision, and yet you know him to have done _something, _for he brings you to the mirror and the two of you are swept inside to a passage hanging with darkness. 

Your memory swims; you can scarcely understand what transpired, or what has yet to.

What is it this place hides? Why do dressing-rooms admit entrance to secret passageways? What conspiracy lie hidden in what you thought to be a state-of-the-art theatre company?

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice has been reduced to a feebleness you would have preferred not to exhibit. 

The man does not answer, but moves with a rapidity that your feet struggle to match in the incomprehensible dark. 

The absence of light obscures your senses, but unlike any ordinary darkness in which your eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and sight becomes possible again, here the darkness is of a perennial variety, thicker than can be penetrated by anything. You supposed the only reason the phantom was even able to navigate is that he, himself, must be some creature of the dark.

The edge that your fear gave you gives way to exhaustion the farther you continue down the corridor. The muscles in your neck ache from tension and the craning you must do to avoid the bite of the cloth lasso threatening to suffocate you. His grip does not, as you had hoped it might, loosen with carelessness over time, but its pressure remains consistent. It is in the several spiralling staircases he leads you down when you feel most vulnerable. 

And then, you can tell you’re nearing a watershed. The water is still and stagnant, yet illuminates the area with a luminescent blue glow that makes vision possible again. Dampness moistens the air.

A small wooden pier stands sturdily over the lake, and fastened to an iron ring, a small boat.

Now the mystery becomes more befuddling. A lake! Under the opera house!

  
But then dread seizes you. This man means to take you across the lake for your imprisonment, and you cannot help but feel some symbolic despair at crossing the water, as though it is some threshold that will really cement your status as a prisoner. 

You tear at the cloth with your hands suddenly, trying to remove it from your neck, but the phantasmal man reacts with a strength you would not expect of someone so skeletal, for now the cloth tightens and is an overwhelming terror that makes you writhe, but you can’t escape because of the arm restraining you, and then…

You’re conscious that there is a man in a black cloak and mask lowering you into something hard and wooden…like a boat. You are confused more than anything because you don’t remember the sky being so dark, or walking to the river, or a man carrying you…

The man turns his back to you before facing you again, and then the boat you are in propels across the water as he rows the oars. 

Your senses feel fuzzy, and you aren’t quite sure what you missed, feeling as though you are just now waking from a long sleep. 

But eventually, your recollection catches up with you, and you sit up in a panic. By now it is too late though, as the boat is departed from the wharf. 

There is a loopy, woozy feeling in your skull. 

With dread, you turn to look at the man you haven’t seen in the full yet, the man who has watched you from the shadows, the one who has kidnapped you and is taking you down to what you can only presume to be dungeon or cellar in the gloomy darkness. His appearance is menacing with the dark mask covering his face.

“Please, monsieur, I entreat you to stop this. It isn’t too late to do what is right and return me to my life. Whatever your plans may be in kidnapping me, you are making a grave mistake. This is immoral and in violation of the law.” 

“Please be at ease, mademoiselle. You have endured much in one night. Do not strain yourself; we are nearly at our destination.”

You do not know when you arrive at your destination, for it is so silent and gloomy in the dark, that despair infects you, and married with the whining pain in your head and faintness, you are content to lie at the bottom of the boat. It must be an effect of being suffocated, you surmise. Only the sound of the water displaced by the oars keeps you as sound of mind as possible in your current predicament.

It must be that you have crossed the lake, because you become aware that the man is lifting you out of the boat now and passes into some estate before gently depositing you, laying down, on a settee with your head on his leg. You don’t care to protest any longer as now drowsiness is settling heavily upon you. 

Fingertips ghost your neck gently.

“Oh!” Cries the man, “Please forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you. You must believe me, my dear. I will be gentle this time, I will be so gentle and so loving. You shall not suffer by my hand, and I will treat you with the tenderness I ought to have had so long ago…”

His fingers brush your forehead and the roots of your hair. 

“I have learned to have the mercy with which I was so lacking. The Comte de Chagny will be the last…I am a changed man, dear…I will provide for your every last desire, and I will make you happy here. It is for the better you see, for you to be here. Then I will not need to meddle so much in the outside world, and no one will interfere with me, and I will cause trouble for no one…”

Your eyelids grow heavy. His voice is soft and gentle. Fingers touch your eyelids. 

  
“There, go to sleep, dear. Your circumstances have been difficult…especially in the process of bringing you here…but no longer. You may have resistance. It is only to be expected…you don’t fully realise yet the luxury to which you will be owed under my care…The conditions of your life will be most amiable here…I pray you will come to realise that and allow me to afford you love of a warm and gentle kind…the love you have taught me exists.”

Warm darkness envelops you. His hands make their way through your hair. 

  
“I have changed for the better since then…you will see…I shall show you. You have been so good to me…you have saved me…I owe life itself to you…I love you! Most ardently, most fervently, most passionately I love you!”

The lull of approaching sleep deadens the sound of his words, and you fall into slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the description of being choked out on how people described what it feels like. One person described this nasty high feeling in her head for the rest of the night afterward. One thing that can happen when one is choked out is urination and defecation while passed out. 😳
> 
> Since there were mixed results on what ending people would like, I created a straw poll to vote. Here is the link: http://www.strawpoll.me/19592078


	9. Sinking Despondency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note I wanted to include about the last chapter that I forgot to include was about anaesthetics. It crossed my mind to involve them, but with research, I have discovered that chloroform is carcinogenic and it takes five minutes to actually take effect. That would be very awkward and unnatural to use. The only other anaesthetic at the time was ether. Ether had to be administered from gas tanks with a mask, so unless the Phantom carries containers of gas connected to a gas mask, there is no way that would work. Plus, how would he have gotten his hands on it? What he can do though is choke people, and I think that’s sufficient threat to get someone moving. 
> 
> Also, I will set a deadline for voting for an ending in the next chapter. If you haven't done so already, vote here: https://www.strawpoll.me/19592078

When you awaken, it is in a room so unfamiliar to you that it alarms a certain panic at once. It is then that you remember your kidnap and any thin semblance of tranquility brought on by sleep shatters under pounding anxiety. 

You throw yourself upright, and seeing there is an adjoining washroom, you shut yourself in it. 

Under such unpredictable conditions, your emotions are in complete disarray, and you melt to the floor succumbing to unbridled wailing and tears. Yet, the wild passion of outrage and desperation over your newfound captivity are the only things you feel, and weeping serves as a relieving outlet for the taxing emotions that have you so upbraided. 

You aren’t quite sure how much time elapses in which you can only manage to slump your head against the washbasin as your tears dry and leave tracks in your skin. It seems that in this demoralising underground prison, there is a miasma that distorts your emotions into confusion and warps time into something uncertain and illogical. 

There are three small taps at the door of the outer room before it is pushed open, and it must be your captor that enters and who you can hear placing things by the dresser.

“I surmise that you’re in the washroom, dear. I have just finished bringing all the possessions you should need from your flat. Please come out when you are proper.”

The door closes shut as he presumably leaves. 

It sickens you that you are kidnapped, but what sickens you further is that he knows your place of residence. It is a debilitating feeling to be so disgusted that your energy and vitality is exerted on the nauseous feeling and you are too overcome to stand. 

And then you are crying again, and a strange sensation comes about you that you are torn between vomiting from disgust and repulsion and crying out of self-pity. But it is not merely from loathing of this situation that makes you feel so repugnant, you realise. In your forcible capture, he tears down your self-respecting pride by subjecting you to so humiliating a position. In his intrusion of your home, he has breached a personal boundary that has made all those quiet times you felt free and unrestrained under the conditions of solitude suddenly a public spectacle. How long has he known where you lived? What else does he know that you have given him no right to?

Scarcely do you manage to swallow the bile that rushes to your throat. 

It takes the feelings of both courage and resignation to lift yourself from the floor and perform your toilette. You aren’t sure whether to derive comfort in the familiar garments or to feel unsettled. 

With caution, you open the door of the room you have awaken in and take careful paces through the grim hallway beyond. The dark walls seep with coolth that gives the skin goose flesh, and makes a distinctly unwelcoming impression of your stay here, however long it may be. In the absence of the natural sunlight, lamps must be lit to provide any semblance of direction. 

That is the second most alienating aspect of this place. Night and day must meld together into one thread with the absence of daylight. How does this man retain any sense of sleeping and waking hours? Furthermore, how will you manage under these new conditions you find yourself subjected to? You must assume he plans to keep you here, for is there any other reason he would’ve gone to the trouble of abducting you and keeping you as a live prisoner? The vague confessions he professed to you yesternight seep through to your memory, and among them is the admittance of his…love…for you. Should it serve as any reassurance, it alleviates the pressing fears of malintent on the part of your captor, despite the maleffects your kidnap has reaped on your constitution. 

You come across an open door, and you can only conclude that this is your captor’s method of beckoning you into entering the room. There is little else you can do in your position, so you concede and push the door further ajar. 

The room can only be a dining room, and your jailor sits at the table. Even with the freshness of reason and sense that a night of sleep brings, the masked man still alarms you. 

“You managed to find your way. I presumed you would be in want of a meal and took the liberty of preparing one.”  
  
So he did. 

You cautiously sit across from him. He does not eat anything, but watches you as you do, or you must presume he does, since only the anguished countenance of the black mask he wears is visible to you.

You do your best to imagine that you do not feel the prickling of his eyes; trying to ignore the horror-tinted memories of being watched from the shadows that surface under the familiar gaze.

“You do not plan to eat anything?” You query, faintly wary he may have poisoned you.

“I have no need for such sustenance. My music suffices to fill me and drain me at the same time.”

You chose to ignore the strange statement and direct your attention elsewhere. 

“You’re a musician then?”

“A composer among other occupations.”

A night’s repast has made him more reserved than his behaviour toward you when you first became acquainted with your abduction it would seem. 

“Why do you live in this dark and damp place? And…why does this…area…exist?” _In what I must assume to be in the lowest depths of the opera house;_ your recollection is quite hazy, blurred in the darkness so abundant you could gather the thing in bunches with your hands. 

He remains unfalteringly calm. “It is my home.”

It would seem that conversation is fruitless, and so you eat quietly.

“You are finished then,” provides he when you eventually conclude with eating. It is not a question, rather a statement, and you feel uncertain to contradict it should you want to. 

The inevitable question that has resided in your mind must be asked now you decide. “Let us not avoid the obvious any longer,” you state, mimicking his motion of standing, “why is it you have brought me here for? It cannot be for any material gain, for I can provide little for you, and besides there are far more apt targets should that be the case. Should you have wanted to make any attempt on my life, all the opportunities were yours. This is the least information you can divulge!” 

“It is as I have said,” responds your captor, “perhaps exhaustion has led you to forget. It is because I love you.”

You stare coldly, skeptically at him. 

Some emotional fervour disrupts his hitherto calm demeanour and he takes hold of your hand, “You must believe me! It hadn’t been my intention for events to transpire in this manner, but I had scarcely known such kindness…I had to learn more of it! And then I had found myself in love with it.”

You snatch your hand away from his cold grasp and answer crossly, “You scarcely know who I am and you can call yourself in love? You are either mad or deceiving yourself!” 

“Mad? If I am mad, then I have always been so from the compassion that has been so withheld from me. Accuse me of that if you must, but do not doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you. And now, I shall show you the rest of flat. It belongs as much to you now as it does to me.”

You reluctantly trail him after he pronounces the room at present to be the dining room, but his ominous choice of words lingers dreadfully in your mind. Such thoughts produce an enlightenment in you that inspires horror. _How long does he mean to keep me here? _Dread settles in your fingertips and toes. 

Your captor shows you a handsome drawing room complete with a well-loved piano. It is well-furnished for an area that must not have many visitors. The thought of other unwelcome sub-dwelling guests causes your stomach to roil.

The tour turns unexpectedly invasive when he shamelessly displays his bedroom to you. It feels to you as though you are breaching a personal boundary to enter the most private area of one’s dwelling, and that of a stranger nonetheless. If possible, the contents of the room are even more profoundly disturbing. Thick red canopies draped from posters, but in the place of a bed lay an open, lined coffin. “There is always reason to be prepared for the inevitable,” remarks he. The sight of the black walls, coffin, and morbid colours brings is a shocking offence to your eyes, but the offence to your nose is an even greater slight. The room is reminiscent of a funeral parlour, and smells of decay. You feel the fright of Persephone when she was abducted and brought to an underworld of darkness and death. The thought stirs a loneliness for your stellar friend in the sky, hoping to feel the light of sun once more. 

You are quite relieved when he moves back into the hallway, and into room you awoke in. 

  
“This is my Louis-Philippe room. I hope you shall find it to be adequate for your dwelling.”

Indeed, the room was furnished much in Louis Philippe style; handsome guéridon tables were stationed around the room, and the chair across from the settee harboured fine inlays and curved legs in combination with the comfortable padding on the back and seat. He had expensive tastes, you realised as you tallied the net cost idly.

“It has occurred to me that your new situation will inevitably result in confusion on your part,” says he, addressing you to sit on the settee as he occupies the chair across from it. “Feel no shame in articulating any confusions, and for my part, I will answer any that you have.”

And so you shamelessly voice the thought that has occupied your attention for some time.

“Who are you?” 

“You may know me as Erik. Nothing more or less.”

“What is your background then? Are you foreign?”

“I belong to nowhere, neither from this country nor another one. I am only a miserable creature, one that has become a changed one, and one that loves you. That is all.” 

“Be that as it may,” you respond, a rising irritation arising from his vague answers, “if you will not answer my questioning on who you are, then tell me why it is you live in this damp dungeon. Moreover, why does such a place exist beneath an opera house, and what explanation can there be for having a lake here?”

“It is as I have said: this is my home. It is hideaway from the dreary existence of the outer-world. It is not easy for a creature such as myself to find peace, and so I take care in finding somewhere I cannot be bothered by prying intruders…it is better for others and myself that I remain here.

“I hold many occupations,” explains he, “chief among them is architecture, and this opera house was one of my projects. I had the notion to build such a dwelling for myself, and so I have. The lake is another measure to discourage unwanted visitors.”

It is quite a startling realization to discover your captor, Erik as he calls himself, to be the architect scheming the design behind the building that you work at, and that he now sequesters you beneath. How trustworthy is this stranger’s word though?

But it can be of no importance whether he is, indeed, the mind behind the opera house as there are concerns that occupy a position higher in importance…

“Why have you brought me here?” You ask coldly, “do not make me laugh with your excuses of love. That is no answer to my enquiry.”

“It is the truth, and I would tell you a thousand times over to convince you of it. ” 

“One does not hold those they love prisoner in a dark dungeon.”

He winces, as though such an inquiry causes him personal offence, “You are no prisoner here. As I have told you, and as I will tell you: this residence is yours now, just as it is mine.”

  
“Whether or not you welcome me here is of no concern to me. I do not wish to be here, and if you love me as you say you do, you will guide me on the right path to leave.” 

“I would give you anything that would ease your stay, but you must not ask me that for that is one thing I cannot provide you,” voices he, plaintively. 

Agitatedly, you cry, “But what reason can you have to keep me here? We have met on very few occasions, and yet you claim to love me! You claim this to me whilst I am held here against my own volition! How can that be?! Have reason, monsieur, and see the strangeness of your actions! How can you keep me here—you, who can scarcely be called an acquaintances after a few chance meetings—and expect me to be understanding to this whim? Whatever knowledge of me you have is not reciprocated on my part by a mutual understanding of your character. While you say you love me, I can scarcely, in good faith, say I even _know_ you.”

“I believe I have not been clear in communicating my intentions, and that is something I apologise for. At our first meeting I was determined that I would at last die. I had experienced the greatest joy the world had to offer me…I had been shown compassion…for the first time, I had experienced compassion from someone,” withered, skeletal fingers grasp the black mask covering his face in vivid remembrance, “But such a powerful feeling had destroyed me, and I held certain that I would die of it…that I would die of love! 

  
“As I held such a resolve, I thought to view the scenery of the city for last time before I retired myself to my coffin. It so happened that you had the same compassion…the compassion that would kill me now intervened in my solitude. ‘What irony,’ I had scorned and rebuked you for your interference…”

  
He moans plaintively, “Please forgive me for such rude hostility, and know that I would eagerly do anything as repentance for such crudeness!” 

  
“It is of no importance now,” you respond plainly. 

“So kind…so forgiving…I had every intention of dying. But there still remained a lingering curiosity about this wonderful feeling…so powerful it would burn me…and so I asked you, as you’ll recall, my dear, about what it feels to love.

“I remember your reply clearly, ‘if one loves then it should be reason to live and continue loving than to die.’ Your wisdom had struck me and intrigued me. Instead of retiring to my coffin for my permanent stay, as I had planned, I found myself returning to the spot by the river the next evening with the secret hope that you might return again. You did return, and how happy I was, my dear, that you addressed me again.”

You wonder if perhaps his newfound love for you has coloured his past memories, for all you remember is his deterring hostility.

“I was in an excitable state of mind and overwhelmed by your consideration. It was for this reason that I conducted myself in such a temperamental manner, touched to rudeness by the strange revelation you introduced to me in our previous encounter, and wholly confounded by the caring compassion you showed to such a pitiful creature.

“I felt a deep dread at the prospect of never crossing paths with you again; I had to know your whereabouts to ensure that I would find you again. The idea of retiring to death had, by now, escaped my focus as I now had reason to live. I discovered you to be employed at another theatre company, and what a delightful discovery it was when I found you had transferred to the employment of the present one! 

“Through observation, I had come to learn of your amiable character, your talented dedication to your performances, your quiet humbleness that made you unsusceptible to swelling arrogance…”

His specific description alone gives rise to a desperate panic inside you, though you try your best to appear unmoved.

“My love for you had been certain at that point. I believe I had no chance to refute such feelings by then. My desperation to reveal myself to you birthed from such deep love for you had led me to begin correspondence with you.” 

Cold tremors rake you at the memory of that unpleasant time. 

“It distressed me to see you so disturbed at that time, but the pain it would give me to lose you would be infinitely greater; I can assure you. Though, I suppose your terror had been too great and had led to your sudden disappearance. How it terrified me when you disappeared! I was despondent, upbraided with the thought that I might never see you again…As much relief as your return provided, the prospect of your permanent disappearance led me to take action…

“I assure you; the present situation is the best solution to all parties. I shan’t interfere with the management, and I won’t have reason to disturb the civil world. It’s best for all that I remain here. And for your part, my dear, you shall find me to be a respectful friend who will do his utmost to ensure your happiness and contentedness in your life here. Your distress at the transition is understandable, but in time you will come to see this estate as your home.”

A dreadful realization then occurs to you, “_The madman plans on keeping me here for-ever…it is no jest or momentary fascination…he really intends to keep me here!”_

“No, you can’t!” You cry, standing, “Release me! Please! If you have any shred of decency…Release me!”

He says sadly, “It is as I have told you, my dear, that is something I cannot provide you.”

“_This is too much!” _

You flee into the washroom, overcome with tears and unrestrained wailing. 

“I sense your need to meditate on your new circumstances,” says your captor, “You will come to adjust in time.” The door of the Louis-Phillipe room shuts with his exit. 

No, you would not. That is the one thing you swear to never condemn yourself to: an eternity in this dark purgatory. Perhaps, if there should be an afterlife, that may be your sentence, but not while your heart still beats, and not while you still had a life to be lived. You would certainly escape from this madman’s prison.

At present though, you had no stamina to plot a daring escape. There would be time for that, likely an abundance of time. But for now, all you can bring yourself to do is sob mournfully and lament your unfortunate situation curled as a foetus on the cold washroom floor.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Miasma theory of illness has long since been disproven…just thought I should clarify that, even though you probably already know that. The theory held that diseases were spread through bad air. You might see in some old stories that people escape to the country to breathe in the clean air, that is why: to help clear illness, or so it was thought. Also, because the city stunk and if you could afford to avoid it, you certainly would. 
> 
> *toilette= the process of dressing and grooming oneself.
> 
> *Louis-Philippe was a style under the reign of King Louis Philippe I in arts, architecture, and furniture. Some of the things I discuss reference Louis-Philippe style furniture. Signature elements of it are pedestal tables; curved/rounded char/table legs; and darker, heavier furniture. Comfort in furniture was also a priority.
> 
> *I decided to change “shewn” back to the revised spelling of “shown”. It felt too dated since the story takes place in the late 1800s, not at the turn of the 19th century.
> 
> I didn't have the motivation nor the energy to thoroughly revise/edit this chapter, but it is what it is. Do you all like video games? I love watching gameplay of Dead by Daylight and Town of Salem, but I'm most into Dead by Daylight. It's sort of replaced my interest in Town of Salem. I spent the majority of yesterday watching gameplay of it.


	10. Just so there is no confusion...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just so there is no confusion, in the poll for the endings, the good ending is not a true ending. Simply put, the good ending is freedom and the bad ending is remaining as a prisoner.

Just so there is no confusion, in the poll for the endings, the good ending is not a true ending. Simply put, the good ending is freedom and the bad ending is remaining as a prisoner.


End file.
